Page 6 of Crow's Haven
Now I’m thinking about it too much. I pull up a new tab and search for the batch number listed in the med log. PZ739-4B.
Nothing comes up at first. Then, buried on page four of a nursing message board, I find a message thread.
Anyone seen reactions with PZ739?
Got two weird hypotensive crashes on post-ops this week.
Same. Neuro nurse here. Never seen a kid drop that fast.
My mouth goes dry. It’s not an official recall. Not yet. But there’s chatter. I click the usernames. No one gives their full name, but it’s real. Nurses in other cities are seeing the same symptoms. Sudden drop in BP. Skin gray. Pupils blown.
I close the laptop with a snap and push it away, not sure what to think. If it’s something to do with the IV bag, then surely that puts me in the clear? But then my thoughts go back to the records, how I allegedly scanned the bag. Is someone trying to set me up?
***
I almost don’t hear the first call when it comes. I pull the phone out from under the pillow, blinking at the withheld number.
I hesitate, then answer. “Hello?”
Silence. Then, “Miss Carlin.”
The voice is male. Calm. Detached. Unfamiliar.
“The internal investigation is underway. We’ll be following up in the coming days. Please don’t go anywhere.”
Before I can respond the line goes dead.
Outside my window, a police cruiser rolls slowly down the street. It pauses at the intersection, headlights illuminating the front of my building. Then it keeps going.
I quickly reach over and close the blinds. Then I lock the door and double check it twice. I’m scared and not entirely sure why.
Chapter 3
Crow
It’s hotter than sin today. Once my shirt gets sweaty to the point that it sticks to me, I take it off in favor of going bare-chested.
It’s another Saturday morning and I’ve got the boys at the clubhouse. My twins are playing in a blow-up pool on the patio with Siege’s youngest two. It’s really small but they like it. I have to keep them where I can watch them. That’s the most important thing.
Meanwhile, I’ve got half a dozen prospects in the backyard behind the clubhouse, trying to teach them hand to hand combat.
“Wider stance, Evan,” I snap, stepping in and knocking his feet apart with my boot. “Ya plant ‘em that close together again, someone will sweep your legs and drop ya on your back hard enough to jar your teeth loose.”
He nods and redoubles his efforts. Evan takes being a prospect for the Legion seriously. He’s intent upon learning every new skill he can get his hands on.
They all think this club is about bikes and brotherhood, about leather cuts and loose rules. It really ain’t. It’s survival. And survival starts with knowing how to throw a punch that matters and how to take one that doesn’t drop you.
I circle back to the center of the yard and wave the next one forward. This one’s taller, and cockier. His shoulders are back like he thinks size makes up for skill. It doesn’t. I let him come at me, wait for the left shoulder to shift and then move quick, knocking his center of gravity out from under him with a hard twist. He hits the ground with a grunt and surprise is written all over his face.
“Hands up don’t mean jack shit if your feet don’t know what to do,” I tell him, offering nothing more than a glance. “Again.”
Off to the side, just within view, the kids tumble around the back patio so quickly my eyes can hardly follow them. Scout and Chase might be young but they’re as wild as they come. Cleo has taken her kids inside, so at least I only have my two terrors to keep an eye on.
I refocus on the next round, shifting to a defensive drill, but I keep half an eye on the patio. Chase’s climbing a chair backward. Scout’s chasing a bug with a plastic bat.
Then I hear the screech of metal from their direction, and my gut tightens before I even look.
Scout’s halfway up the back stairs. He’s grinning, wild-eyed, ‘cause this son of mine loves testing fate.
